Celine Ong

This morning began gently, with honey offered across the table. A question about dinner lingered in the air, simple yet thoughtful.

I missed one bus, then another, before finally boarding. In the toilet, my door was slammed again and again — sharp interruptions that I carried quietly. Crossing the road, I ran; in the lift and on the stairs, I moved with steady rhythm. A bicycle passed too close, and I shifted aside just in time.

On the bus, someone sat with me and asked about my family. Their...

Dinner was a quiet bowl of noodles, warmth in the midst of a day that pressed in small ways.
An arm, faintly green with bruise, carried its own silence.
The house filled with footsteps and rebuke
walking in and out, space asked but not given.
Two tablets rested in my hand, a reminder to care for myself.
And after the swallow, after the stillness,
the body began to ease.
Better. A little lighter.

This morning, I woke on my own. A small sweetness of honey after brushing, a bath, a breakfast — and still, the ache of almost-tears. My stomach hurt; I pressed oil against the pain before stepping out. On the bus, I carried myself quietly. The toilet doors slammed, the smell turned my stomach, the lift brought me down, and I sat quickly before another could. Small routines, sharp edges.

On the ride, someone joked “boss let boss.” I offered a greeting, but another refused to meet my eyes —...